Back Home by Dawn
by Ophelia193
Summary: Three friends meet in a bar, and get suitably drunk. An accompaniment to "I Remember that Night" and "Dia de los Muertos." Same story, this time told from Logan's POV.


**Back Home by Dawn**

 **An accompaniment to "I Remember that Night" and "Dia de los Muertos." Same story, this time told from Logan's POV.**

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I ain't one of those sappy shits. Ain't one to wax philosophic about home, family, and love. I'm a realist. I call a spade a spade and an asshole an asshole. That's part is the reason I got myself in so many fights. I always won those fights, for the record. But anyways. . .

I went almost twenty years without any memories from before waking up, buck naked, in the middle of nowhere. Then, I remembered. None of your damn business how I remembered my past, point is that I did. Turned out that my past was best forgotten, but I still owed someone for what they did for me back then, so I tracked the bastard down. Told him to meet me at a bar I knew. Figured once I filled in the gaps in my memory with the guy and thanked him, I could move on with my life. Maybe create a life worth remembering.

Thing was, when I got to said bar, a piece of my more recent past was there. Possibly the best part of the last two decades – someone who knew who I really was but didn't shit themselves in terror. A real friend. Rogue. Although I like to call her Marie, mostly because it ain't a name she gives out easily. We had some rough times, but we rode them out together.

She was there at the bar, gulping down whiskey. Oh, sorry, ladies don't gulp. She was sippin' it. With her pinkie out an' everything. It looked liked she'd 'sipped' a few already, and she stared up at me with wide eyes when she spotted me. "Holy Shit!" she yelled as her jaw dropped. My jaw dropped, too. In all the bars in all the world. . . you know the rest. She was looking good – healthy, I mean – don't make me out to be a perv. I might be a perv, but I sure don't need help in the matter.

A weak "Kid?" was all I could come up with. I was fucking surprised, alright? Not my most debonair moment, but she smiled at me all the same. Smiled at me and stood on wobbly legs. She crossed the room without a sound and threw her arms around me into a loving embrace. I hugged her back. I can count the number of people I will hug on one finger, FYI. Only one person I care for in that way. Only real family I have. It felt damn good to have her in my arms, to see that she was same sweet girl, to know that she still cared about me. In that moment I felt calmer than I had in years.

Then came the questions. From both of us. Where had I been? What had she been up to? Do you want another drink? We shouldn't have answered that last one in the affirmative so often. We ended up sitting in a booth, with me telling her about all what had happened since we'd seen each other last, and her listening intently. That's the thing about Rogue, some people see her as shy, a wallflower even; but she gets everything. A bit like her power. She absorbs information, consumes it, lets it become a part of her. Probably why she's so much older than her years. And she sat there listening to me bitch on about everything, sipping her alcohol, experiencing my traumas with me, as she's always done. Damn, I missed this girl. And damn, that alcohol was pretty damn good. And damn, I need to stop saying damn. Is there a swearing thesaurus around? Oh, and speaking of booze, we got any more beer here, or what? Anyways, we drank so much that night that even **I** got tipsy, and that's a fucking feat, right there.

She started to nod off, muttering about my muscles, but I got her to drink some water so I wouldn't have to end the night holding her hair as she wretched into the filthy unisex toilet. She was settling into me when she told me "I'm glad your past didn't destroy you." Fucking weird thing to say, but I got what she was going for. The fact that she liked me for me still freaks me out a bit, and the further fact that she doesn't want to see me change would probably make me doubt her sanity, if I took the time to think about it. But I don't think about stuff like that. I've got drinking, fighting, and fucking to fill my time.

It was about that point that Remy LeBeau, alias Gambit, alias the Cajun, alias Cocky Douchebag Supreme, wandered up. Sunglasses hiding his eyes, he let out a polite cough to announce himself. Son of a bitch looked like he aged almost as slowly as I did.

"LeBeau," I greeted him. "Hey, can we get a couple of Molson's over here?"

"How you been, _homme_?"

I shrugged. I'm not great at small talk, but I gave it a shot. Gambit's eyes kept wandering to Rogue while we were chatting. Looking her up and down with a lecherous eye. The guy was a player, and I ain't just talkin' about cards. Figured I had to nip that in the bud, bub.

This girl actually meant something to me. Guess she was more of a woman at that point. Not that I think of her that way – I mean she's hot, but I don't want to stick it to her. Although I understand why someone would want to. Anyways, I cared about her, in a platonic way. She looked into my mind and didn't hit her pants in terror. What? I already said that? Well, it's still a damn fine figure of speech, so fuck you, mouth-breather. Anyways, she made me actually _want_ to do the right thing, made me care about something beyond myself. She's been family to me ever since.

Since she was family, I had to protect her. Now, I might not have remembered every detail of my life before adamantium was painfully grafted to my bones, but I did know this: Gambit was a man-whore. And Marie's not a one-night stand kind of girl. Ain't no-one going to break my Marie's heart, especially not the gambler. I'd see him skewered on my claws before that happened. Problem is, the girl ain't one to take orders. If I told her to stay away, she'd do the exact opposite. So I said nothing. But I did promise myself that I'd made a spectacularly bloody end of the Cajun if he hurt her. Oh, don't give me that look, clearly I didn't do it. Yet.

So I got him talking. I still had little gaps in my memory from when I met Gambit before, so I set about filling them in.

"You were a gambler, right?" I asked.

He smirked, "You could call me 'dat."

Smug bastard. "So what, you cheated?"

" _Non_. Not unless I had to."

"You had a plane. . ." A fuzzy memory fluttered into my head.

"Still do. Got dat baby fair an' square." He shot a smile over to Rogue.

"I hate flying," I muttered.

"Ditto," came Marie's drunken voice from my side. Course she would, wouldn't she? Being sucked out of a jet will do that to you.

The Cajun and I continued to sit, drink, and reminisce. Rogue was pretty quiet through the whole thing. Hearing about who I had been, what I had done—if I'd hadn't known here better, I would have thought that she would judge me for it. But this was Marie, the most understanding girl you're ever meet. So instead of getting angry or disgusted, she just leaned into me a little more whenever something bad came up, like she was giving me a little hug.

Gambit excused himself for a moment, then returned a minute later with a slightly nauseous look on his face. "Dat was one scary bathroom."

Rogue laughed a little. "Coulda told you that. But I've certainly seen worse."

"The girl's locker room at Xavier's really that bad?" I joked.

She gave me an indulgent smile, then a sad look overcame her. "Finding a good restroom on the road was always a luxury. I remember at this one place, up by the border, I was able to find a busy truck -stop restaurant. Those were always good because no one noticed if you just went to the ladie's room and left. No pretending you're a paying customer. Which was good, because I was broke by then. It was a frikin' maze back to the toilet, going by the boxes of stock, waiting to be put away. One of the boxes on top was filled with peaches - I froze when I saw them. Little reminders of home. Little, delicious, sweet, mouth-watering reminders of home.

"There was a lull in the behind-the-scenes chaos of the restaurant, a moment of opportunity. So I snatched a peach. I hadn't stolen anything up till then, but my funds were depleted, my stomach growling, and virtue . . . I was beginning to wonder if I ever had any of that. The smell of the thing cut like a knife, triggering memories within me of all the love and comfort that had once been. All the good meals, laughs, hugs, and security that had disappeared on that day my mutation manifested. Replaced with fear, hunger, and avoiding the roaming hands of strangers.

"Then a kid, like eight years old or something, walked up, waking me from my stupor. His eyes widened as he realized that I was stealing. Some little boy scout who thought that stealing was wrong, no matter what. But he didn't say anything. Just spoke volumes with his eyes, judging me, condemning me. It wouldn't have been so long before that I'd have done the same thing, if I'd come across someone stealing fruit. I gave him the steeliest face I could, and placed the peach in my pocket and walked out of that truck stop. Finally ate that peach a few hours later. It was tasteless."

It was the most I had ever heard Rogue talk about her time on the road, or getting thrown out of her home. She was always tight-lipped about it. Always figured it was because she didn't want the pity. She hates being pitied. Maybe she just didn't want to dredge up that pain, which seemed to be what she was feelin' by the end of that story.

"God, I need another drink." She said to no one in particular.

So I got her another one. The Cajun asked her where the two of us met. And she told him. Not with the stock answer that she gave most people, but with the whole story. Even bits that I hadn't heard before. Maybe it was the alcohol that was making her open up, maybe it was the company, I don't know.

I listened in silence, as spoke of her life on the road, then at Xavier's. Poor girl had been through so much, but she managed to focus on the best of her experiences. Even when buckethead kidnapped her – she got a perfect score on a World War II paper not long after.

I wasn't the only one listening. I knew the look in Gambit's eye. Pretty sure I had it every time that I had looked at Jean. A combination of lust, longing, and genuine admiration. The boy had love in his eyes. Moment I realized that, I decided the night was over. The Cajun gave her a little orange flower, and she blushed a little. I hurried her out of there after that.

Good thing I had my old truck with me that night, because there was no way I was getting her drunk, sleepy butt on my motorcycle. And I damn sure wasn't about to let her drive home in that state. She gave me vague directions, which were impossible to follow, but about twenty minutes later I had driven her home. Pretty sure the place was only ten blocks from her house. I love ya, kid, but you're the crappiest navigator I've ever seen. Yes, you are, deal with it.

I pulled off her shoes and put her to bed, but she made me promise to stay. There was sparse furniture in her ratty apartment, but thankfully she had a nice, sturdy, overstuffed chair in her room that I parked my metal ass in.

She started rambling about something as she settled into her bed, a long story that was only half-intelligible. I sorta ignored her, the only bit I got was apparently the punch line of the story, which was "Holy hand-grenade of Antioch, that's a mean rabbit!" Then she started cackling like a banshee for several minutes, although I don't know why the fuck it was funny. Or what it meant. But as her laughter died down, she asked me softly, "Was it my imagination, or was that Remy guy hitting on me?"

Crap. "Yeah, darlin', he was."

She hummed happily, a goofy smile on her face. "He's hot."

Double crap. "Whatever you say."

Her smile faded quickly. "Not that anything could ever happen."

"Whadda mean?" Now why was it a good idea to encourage her at this point? Can anyone tell me?

"Can't touch. Who'd want to be with someone who can't be touched?" Sadness seeped into her voice, and although her eyes were almost closed, I could see tears welling up.

"Hey," I sat down on her bed and pulled her to me, "Don't you be talkin' about my best girl like that."

She gave a meek smile. "But it's true, Logan. No one could ever deal with it, no matter how much they claimed to like me."

Cradling her against my chest, I told her, "Listen to me, because I ain't goin' ta get mushy like this again. You're the most amazing girl, er, woman, I've ever known. You're kind, brave, understanding, and beautiful. You were the first person who made me feel like an actual person in years. Don't know if there's a man out there good enough for you, but if there is, he'll cope with your mutation. Otherwise, fuck 'em."

I felt her squeeze in a bit closer to me, but her body soon relaxed and she fell asleep in my arms. Not sure how much, if any, she heard of my little speech. I tucked her in like she was just a rug-rat, covering her sleeping form with blankets. I had just sat down on the edge of the bed when the first rays of the sun peaked over the horizon.

Not sure if I gave her the push she needed to believe that a relationship with the Cajun was worth pursuing, but if so, I guess that this whole damn thing is my fault. But don't go naming the brat after me. And I ain't baby-sitting, ya got that? I don't deal with anyone's shit, literal or metaphorical, other than my own.

" _Uh, Rogue . . . who invited him to the baby shower?"_

" _Don't know. But I'm guessin' this is the last invite he'll ever be getting' ta anything."_

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 **And thus end my drunken night trilogy. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. Just in case you were wondering, I figured that Rogue's version was being told at her wedding reception, Remy's version was being told when he was talking to the folks at the X-Mansion when he finally meets them, and Logan's version was told at Rogue's baby-shower.**


End file.
